Starfire: Retribution
by VictorVictoria
Summary: When the man who abused one of the Guardians' believers becomes hell-bent on revenge, how can they protect the child without crossing irreversible boundaries? (Ninth "Starfire" one-shot, rated for dark content and foul language. Please heed the warnings.)


Author's Note:

Disclaimer-Still don't own _Rise of the Guardians_ , obviously.

So I came to the conclusion while agonizing over this one-shot that you guys were either going to love it or absolutely hate it and send me to the executioner for ever dreaming up something so horrible. There's a _lot_ of dark content in here, hence the M rating, and while I'm not completely sure if the actions of certain characters are going to go over well, it's how I imagined it going down, so...throw myself into the fire and see what happens, is what I figured.

 **Warning** : This is rated M for a reason! There's going to be some **extremely dark content** , including lots of foul language, suicide, discussions of child abuse, child/teenage homelessness, drug use, 'squint and you'll notice' allusions to teenage prostitution, and allusions to/very brief discussions of child torture and child murder. Proceed _only_ if you feel completely comfortable doing so, I cannot emphasize this enough.

(Just as an FYI, the first half or so of the story isn't in chronological order, but it'll all make sense as you read it.)

As weird as it is to say, considering the nature of this fic, please enjoy.

* * *

Layla Black stood in a darkened bedroom, nearly indistinguishable from the shadows thanks to her dark complexion and clothing. Her thick curls fluttered around her head and shoulders as the window air conditioning unit assaulted her with icy air. Her face was an expressionless mask, and her voice, when she spoke, was quiet and dispassionate.

"I waited for you to change your mind. I was hoping you would change your mind. But you haven't. You're determined to do this, aren't you, determined to see it through."

Two figures lay together in their bed, asleep and unknowing. Even if they'd been wide awake and alert, they would not have seen or heard the child-spirit, for they were grown up and did not believe.

"You are a dark, twisted man," she continued in a murmur. Her olive green eyes, normally alight with laughter and warmth, were empty of all discernible emotion. "Worse—you do not even see the error of your own judgment. You are as blind to your faults as you are to your wrongdoing. If you had been a spirit, your glimmer would have ceased to exist altogether."

She fell quiet for a time. For several minutes, the only audible sounds in the room were the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional snores from the humans in their bed.

Then Layla Black announced to everyone, and to no one, to the universe and the almighty beings that governed it: "You endanger everyone and everything I love. For that, and that alone, I will see you righteously judged."

* * *

He could hear water dripping.

Drip.

Drip.

 _Drip._

 _Drip._

It was maddening. But even more frustrating and disturbing was how he couldn't find the source of the noise anywhere, no matter how thoroughly he searched the house. He cursed and grumbled to himself about it at all hours of the day and night, though he struggled to keep the majority of his aggravation to himself. He didn't want to disturb his family any more than he already had with his outbursts about 'those damn pipes' or 'that fucking faucet'.

 _Drip._

 _Drip._

 _Drip._

To make things worse, even when he was out-of-doors, or in his car, or meeting with his lawyer, he could still hear it. And _that_ didn't make any fucking sense at all.

 _Drip._

 _Drip._

Just what the hell was it? What was making that insufferable noise?!

And why the fuck was he so scared? It just didn't make any fucking sense at all.

* * *

"Do we really have to do this?"

"She said we must, so we must."

"Yeah, but…it just seems… _wrong._ "

"Wrong?" Starfire's cold voice cut clean through the two Guardians' hushed conversation. When North and Frost turned in unison to look at her, they saw the harsh set of her mouth and the hard stare of her eyes, both emphasized by the flickering shadows cast by her white fire. "It was wrong for that man to ruthlessly beat and torture a child. It was wrong for that judge to sentence him to only three years in a minimum security facility. It was wrong for him to be released after only eighteen months for 'good behavior'. It was wrong for his probation officer to cut him loose without restriction, calling him 'a good man who made poor choices in his desperate attempt to save his family'. As if anything he ever did to that boy was acceptable, let alone commendable!"

Her eyes narrowed to glaring slits. "With or without you," she hissed, "I will do anything I need to do to protect Jorge."

* * *

The abandoned warehouse was a dark, stiflingly hot place filled with rusty equipment and piles of garbage. It was stinky and overrun with rats and roaches, and something large and suspiciously humanlike dangled from a rope tied to the rafters above her head.

Anyone else would've been too terrified (or, at the very least, too wary) to remain there. Even her familiar cowered in her shadow, eyes darting about as if he genuinely expected something dangerous to leap out at them. But Layla wasn't nervous. She wasn't scared or intimidated because she knew nothing here could hurt her. With her power and knowledge, and the many shadows surrounding her, she felt completely safe.

Despite this, Layla Black stood silent, still, and watchful, as she patiently waited.

With a lurch and a gasp, the hanging thing came to life. It thrashed about for a moment, legs kicking through the air as both hands reached up to grasp at the rope tied around its neck. As it flailed wildly, the figure tried to curse its way through its shock and terror, but was wholly unable to do so thanks to the great pressure still being exerted upon its windpipe. All that came out of its mouth was a series of harsh, almost high-pitched wheezes.

Then the rope gave with a snap, and the figure dropped to the floor with a dull thud. He landed in a crumpled heap, still grasping desperately at the bond on its neck as if to tear it free…

"Leave it be," Layla instructed. "It is part of you now. It will never break loose."

The figure jerked at the sound of her voice, dark eyes wide with shock.

"The hell are you talking about?" he rasped, scuttling back on his hands and heels. He spoke in Spanish, his mother's tongue. "Who are you? What happened to me?"

"You died," Layla said simply. "And then you came back."

"Back? I don't…" His eyes darted about more frightfully than Nuno's. He looked like a trapped animal searching desperately for a means to escape. "I don't understand…"

"That you can see me is proof enough of your fate." The figure stared at her in confusion as she elaborated, "You are a spirit now, no longer human."

"A ghost?!" he gasped. He made a choked gurgling sound and clawed at the rope again. "No! No I can't be! I don't want to be a ghost, I want to get out of here! I want—"

"You wanted to die," she interrupted in an uncharacteristically firm voice. "And you did. After that, your fate was no longer yours to decide."

"What did you do?" He stared at her with eyes that were equal parts disturbed and accusing. "The fuck did you do to me?" Then he startled as another thought crossed his mind. "And how the hell do you understand me?! You know Spanish?!"

"I know and speak every existing language," she stated matter-of-factly.

"That's impossible."

"Not for me. I determine the fate of each and every spirit who walks the long path to the void. How could I be expected to judge a spirit's worth appropriately if I cannot even converse with them?"

"I don't believe it." He scuttled back a bit further. "I don't believe you!"

She cocked her head slightly to one side, genuinely curious now. "Humans have told stories of similar things for centuries: a scale upon which a human's heart is weighed against a single feather; a trio of kings who stand guard in the afterlife to decide a soul's worth; a single all-knowing entity who judges all. Is my existence really so impossible when you consider this?"

"But—but you're so little!"

She shrugged the fact away as unimportant. "I am young. But some day I will be grown up."

He was close to hyperventilating now. The damage done to his throat and neck made the rapid breaths sound especially harsh and raspy.

"What am I?" he said at last, in a voice as tiny as a whisper. "What have you done to me?"

Her expression softened a little. He was scared. Of course he was. Her Daddy had explained to her once how scared and confused he'd been when he first became a spirit, and Jack Frost too hadn't understood when he flew up out of the frozen pond and realized no one could see or hear him.

There was no point making things worse for this new spirit, especially considering what he was meant to do.

"I have done nothing," she explained gently. "Greater spirits than I have chosen you to take up a mantle long left unfilled. I am simply here to help you and to guide you in your first task."

He swallowed thickly. "Wh-what mantle?"

"You are _Desgraciado,_ The Unfortunate, the spirit of misery and misfortune."

His face paled, then darkened with anger, then turned a sick, ashy gray. Layla let him process, choosing to remain silent even when a hand slowly lifted to touch trembling fingers to the rope bound tight around his neck despite her earlier command to leave it alone.

"Is there any way to undo this?" he whispered.

She shook her head, dark curls tumbling lightly across her shoulders. "You are to live out your existence as you are. You have purpose now, an important purpose, even if you do not understand it yet."

He swallowed again before rising to stand on trembling legs.

"All right," he said, his Spanish still hoarse and rasping. Layla suspected his voice would never return to normal, just as the rope around his neck and dangling about a foot down his back would never come loose again. "All right. Tell me…what am I supposed to do?"

* * *

The Guardians did not seek vengeance on a child's behalf. While it wasn't something that had been explicitly forbidden by Manny, it was all but a taboo among their little group. The five spirits understood that while humans could do terrible and unwarranted things to each other, including to their own kids, it was not their place to interfere in such events.

For once the invisible boundary was crossed…there was simply no telling where those dark doors and obscure paths of revenge would ultimately lead them, let alone when—or _if_ —the madness would finally stop.

Being the Guardian of Peace, they'd assumed Starfire would implicitly understand it as well. But they had all failed to recognize the sheer depth of protectiveness she would harbor for her wards, particularly her first: Jorge Casales.

So when it was told to them that they would need to bend the ancient and steadfast rule of no interference, they were more than a little perturbed to discover that she was the only one amongst them who agreed without reservation.

* * *

The noise—

—would—

—not—

— _stop_!

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

It was beyond maddening. It had been weeks since he'd last had a proper sleep. Even stuffing his ears with cotton or earplugs didn't stop the sound from reaching him, driving his exhausted brain to near hysterics.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

A buzzing from the nightstand was a welcoming distraction. He sat up swiftly and grabbed for the phone, nearly leaping from his bed when he recognized the number.

"You've got it?" he asked when he answered. He was a bit breathless, but assured himself he was only excited.

"Almost. I've got the name, now it's merely a matter of searching the database for the address."

"Good. Good."

Both men spoke in Spanish; they were far more comfortable speaking that tongue than English, and doing so made it less likely for either of them to be reported if they were overheard.

Not that Fernando feared being overheard. His wife knew full well what he was up to. That she chose not to pry was for her own peace of mind, not because she disapproved of his intentions. After what that little shit had put them both through, he knew he had her complete support.

Smiling broadly, Fernando assured his cousin and longtime friend, "I owe you one."

Javier scoffed. "You're damn right you do. Do you know how many favors I had to call in to make sure this stayed under wraps? They didn't exactly leave a huge paper trail…I've spent weeks scrounging up the little I've got. But I'll be damned before I let anyone trace this back and use it against you." The man's voice lowered to a growl, and Fernando could practically see the dark scowl settling upon Javier's face in his mind's eye. "You be sure to cut that lying little fucker's tongue out for me."

Sitting there in the dark, Fernando's smile twisted into one of sadistic glee. "Don't you worry," he murmured. "It'll be the first fucking thing I do."

He hung up after that and lay back down, feeling happier than he had in ages. He closed his eyes to sleep, and for once even the incessant dripping did not bother him.

…though he could still hear it clearly.

…drip…

…drip…

… _drip_ …

* * *

They stood in Fernando's room together, watching as he went to sleep with a wicked smile on his face.

"I don't understand," said the young man at her side, his rasping voice unheard by the non-believers. "I thought…I thought he was in jail…"

"It was over a year before his case went to trial," Layla explained. The boy nodded his head—it seemed he'd known about that much at least—but chose not to interrupt. "He was sentenced to three years with two strikes on his record, but was let out after a year and a half. Good behavior, they said."

"Prisons in this state have always been overcrowded," he mumbled to himself, eyes still fixed upon the sleeping humans. "They'll cut just about anyone loose…"

"He was on probation for quite a while after that. He was let off a few months ago without restriction; it seems he made quite the impression on the probation office, practically their star ward."

"He was always good at that. At making people like him. It was kids he couldn't bother with…his own kids anyway."

Layla glanced over, but Carlos Castillo did not look away from his father and stepmother. He was just shy of eighteen, about Jack Frost's age when the frost spirit had died, yet his expression in that moment was that of a much older person, someone who had endured far more hardship and pain and loneliness than any ten people should.

After a while, he seemed to sense her staring and turned his head to meet her olive green gaze.

"Does…does Jorge know? You know Jorge, right?" Layla nodded. "Does he know that I didn't…that I never…"

He struggled to put the words together, his Spanish trembling.

"I never wanted to hurt him," he finally managed to rasp. "He was the brother I'd always wanted to have. But…" He shuddered and looked away, head hanging in shame. "But I'm a coward. I was relieved when he started getting it instead of me. And when father told me to hurt him, when he threatened to do worse to me if I didn't obey…"

The words trailed away into silence. Layla reached out a hand and took hold of his sleeve, offering him comfort without outright coddling him, which she suspected he neither wanted nor would appreciate. He may have suffered terribly as a child and taken his own life in a desperate attempt to escape the pain and the guilt, but he still had his pride.

"He doesn't know," she told Carlos, who flinched when he heard. "But you will tell him."

"How? How can I when no one can see or hear me?"

"I told you, didn't I? There will always be believers, and there are a select few who will continue to believe despite growing up." She smiled up at him. "Your brother is one of them."

"How will I get him to believe?"

"Simple. Mama and I will tell him."

"You will?"

"Of course."

She'd explained some things to him in recent nights, including who the Guardians were and their roles in the world, as well as how the system of believers worked, so Carlos already understood that very few would ever believe in him. Most kids would be too little to properly understand who he was or what he represented, and as many would be traumatized by his appearance it would be better for him to remain largely invisible regardless. But, as Layla had said, there were a handful of humans (including Jorge and his good friend Jamie Bennett) who were older yet still believed, making them capable of understanding _and_ accepting.

Carlos was studying his father's sleeping form again. "So this is what I must do?" he said. "Help you stop him from hurting Jorge?"

"Yes."

"How are we supposed to do that, with just us two?"

"Oh, it won't be just the two of us," she assured him. And when he glanced down at her again, confused by the tone of her voice, he was startled to see her smile was no longer sweet, but a cunning leer filled with wicked, sharp teeth.

* * *

The Guardians were shocked to see Carlos, of course. So many new spirits in such a short period of time was astounding, and they wondered at the oddity of it. Yet when he was introduced by name, Starfire went rigid. The white flame atop her staff flared large in the wake of her anger, and the power of her glare alone would've been enough to cut through stone. The other Guardians shifted, wondering if they would be forced to defend the new spirit from their group's latest addition.

Yet the flora spirit said and did nothing. In spite of her initial fury, she listened intently while her daughter spoke of Carlos' role as the spirit of misery and misfortune, green eyes raking over his body, taking in his faded, tattered clothes, thin, haggard appearance and, most notable of all, the rope still coiled about his neck.

Based upon everything she saw, and everything she knew from Jorge, it was easy for her to surmise the truth.

"He hurt you too?" she asked, causing the other Guardians to cock their heads in confusion. She had never spoken to them of Jorge's past, for that tale was his alone to tell and he had never deigned to share it with them.

Carlos held her gaze for only a moment before lowering his to the floor. He nodded once, mutely.

And Starfire believed him.

* * *

… _drip…_

… _drip…_

… _drip…_

It was getting louder. The closer to his goal he became, the louder the dripping resounded in his ears.

But he was getting better at ignoring it, too. He was getting better at tuning it out.

Nothing would distract him from his goal. Not even phantom noises that meant absolutely nothing at all.

… _drip…_

… _drip…_

… _drip…_

* * *

While the Guardians normally weren't permitted to take revenge on a child's behalf, just as Layla herself usually didn't judge a human's worth (for neither task was their job or intended purpose), this one time they were being forced to make an exception.

When the Guardians, save Starfire, protested this, Layla explained everything.

Fernando Castillo was a very dangerous man. He was dangerous because those who did not know him well believed him to be harmless, while those who did accepted the darkness and cruelty inside him. Driven by wounded ego, Castillo was bound and determined to find Jorge and to punish him, regardless of the risk to himself or his reputation. And, as it unfortunately turned out, he actually knew someone who was both willing and capable of helping him achieve that end. With Javier's aid, it was only a matter of time before he obtained the Rollins' address.

The situation presented a very unique problem: though he was nearing fourteen years of age, Jorge still believed, meaning he would seek the Guardians' help and protection; trouble was, they were forbidden from interfering in a direct interaction between a believer and a non-believer, for more than one child had been prosecuted and killed in centuries past for being a witch or dabbler in dark arts due to spirits' interference. Ignoring the problem obviously wasn't an option, and they couldn't exactly rely upon humans to protect Jorge either. For one thing, Jorge would be forced to move again, leaving behind the people he'd grown to trust and the one spirit who had enabled him to open up and reveal his most intimate wounds so he could finally heal.

For another…if the Guardians left matters for humans to deal with and their protective measures failed, causing Jorge to be hurt—or worse, killed—there was simply no telling what lengths Starfire would go to in her own personal quest for revenge.

And Pitch Black would help her, if only because she was his wife and he would not be able to bear to see her grieving.

Which meant the Guardians would be forced to hunt them. Or Moon would have to personally take action against them. Or the Sun Woman—who governed the spirits of daylight and safeguarded the adults who juxtaposed the children Moon was sworn to protect—would seek swift retribution for their interference. It really didn't really matter which occurred; if the Guardians turned a blind eye to this, the consequences, no matter the outcome, would be dire.

Despite her youth, even little Layla clearly understood how fine the line was they were all about to tread. And so, to protect both the human child Jorge Casales and the spirits who guided and treasured him, she sought out spirits greater than she to obtain their consent.

Man in the Moon had been the first to agree to her proposition, although it had been clear to Layla's perceptive eyes that he was extremely reluctant to do so. His one caveat was that Pitch Black did not participate in any way; he feared giving the former Nightmare King an inch lest the spirit of fear take a mile. Or three.

Pitch Black had ranted and raged when he heard about Moon's demand, though he agreed to stay out of it in the end. Layla overheard him grumbling to himself as she made to depart, something about his old friend regretting his choices one day. She'd paused in her summoning of a portal and darted over to give her Daddy a tight hug about the waist.

"He'll trust you again one day," she told him. "You'll see."

He appeared startled by the comment, but smiled warmly and caressed the top of his daughter's head.

Sun Woman was much harder to convince, though that was largely because the ancient star spirit was so stubborn. Layla Black wasted several hours in the Golden Palace being put off by servants, who were adamant in their refusals to grant her audience. Saulė Starfire, it seemed, was terrified of her granddaughter, although she would never admit to it. Eventually Layla lost patience; she teleported straight to the Sun Woman's chambers, bypassing all protective wards as if the powerful magic did not exist at all. Sun Woman startled at the intrusion, yet recovered quickly, her expression devolving into one of pure rage at the child's audacity.

But when she made to smite the girl, magic gathering swiftly to her hand, both the influx of power and the furious tirade building on her tongue vanished away the instant she caught sight of two wrathful, blackened eyes.

" **Your pride blinds you** **Saulė Starfire! If you cannot see past your own hurt to the task dictated by necessity, perhaps it is time for a new spirit to take your place!** "

Sun Woman flinched…and relented. She seated herself regally upon her ornate settee and listened in silence while the child spirit (whose eyes and voice had returned to normal) explained the situation. When she was finished, Layla braced herself for an argument, but it seemed her little outburst was enough to convince the Sun Woman to be reasonable.

"So long as this starts and stops with that man," she said in a cool voice, "I take no issue with your proposal."

After that (and after a brief detour to California to fetch Carlos), all that remained was to convince the Guardians. But even with her extensive explanation as to how far she'd gone to ensure no boundaries were irrevocably crossed, all of the Guardians, save Starfire, retained strong reservations. It took a great deal of debate—nearly two days of it, in fact—before their peculiar group finally came to a consensus:

They would deal with Fernando Castillo without physically harming him or anyone around him, but in a manner that would permanently ensure he never again sought out Jorge Casales.

* * *

He was growing increasingly impatient. Javier should've had the address for him by now, what the hell was taking so long?

AND WHY WOULDN'T THAT DAMN DRIPPING STOP?!

 _Drip…_

 _Drip…_

 _Drip…_

He had the television volume cranked way up, until he was certain the neighbors could hear it as plainly as if the widescreen was in their own living room, but even that couldn't drown out the insufferable noise.

…drip…

…drip…

The sound was getting louder, but the drips were also happening further and further apart, as if the draining of…whatever it was…had finally begun to slow.

…drip…

…drip…

A low growl snagged his blank-eyed stare from the television. His head snapped around and he was on his feet in an instant, searching out the noise.

Archer, the heavy-set pit mix he'd insisted his wife get for protection while he was in prison, was in the kitchen. Every muscle taut, the dog stared unblinkingly at the top of the refrigerator, growling deeply and continuously in his most threatening manner.

Upon casting a cursory glance and spotting nothing of interest, Fernando called to the dog. He didn't move. Fernando called a second time. He then barked out a summons in his most authoritative voice. When the dog still wouldn't budge, Fernando stomped into the room, grumbling curses under his breath. Snatching a stool from the breakfast bar, he climbed up onto it to peer at the top of the fridge, just in case the dumb mutt had seen a mouse or a roach or something.

Nothing. With a snort, Fernando chided in Spanish, "There's nothing up here, you stupid mongrel."

… _drip…drip…_

Climbing down from the stool, he grabbed the dog's collar and yanked hard. But the dog dug in his heels and refused to be moved; his threatening growls hadn't ceased, and he _still_ would not look away from that one specific spot.

"There's nothing there you fucking moron!" Fernando snarled, yanking again on the dog's collar before smacking him atop the head with his fist. Probably not the smartest of ideas, considering dogs' propensity to bite when provoked, but at the moment he was too tired and stressed and pissed off to even think about such a thing, let alone care.

It was at the precise moment his knuckles connected with the top of the dog's skull that something crashed to the floor behind him. Fernando's heart leapt painfully in his chest and he cursed loudly and vehemently. The noise also startled Archer, who jerked free of his master's grip and now stood backed against the far wall, head jerking between the top of the fridge and the opposite cupboard as if unable to decide which deserved his attention more.

Fernando turned to glare over his shoulder. One of the cabinets had come open—how, he couldn't even fathom to guess—and a ceramic plate had fallen to the floor. It now lay in about fifteen hundred tiny pieces, glittering mockingly in the moonlight.

 _Just my fucking luck…_

Casting a dark glance at the dog, Fernando set about cleaning up the mess. But he'd only just bent down when a very strange noise drew his attention away from the floor and up towards the living room. With the house's open floor plan, he could see clearly into both the dining and living rooms from where he stood, and he watched in open horror as a thin sheet of blue-white ice spread out across the hardwood floor. Within seconds it was in the dining room, crawling up the legs of tables and chairs as it made its way towards him.

The fuck, Fernando mouthed. Then he shouted as loud as he could, "The hell are you doing?! This isn't funny!"

A sudden gust of wind whipped through the house, scattering plate shards everywhere and knocking him to the floor.

" _This isn't funny!_ " he hollered again, struggling to rise as the icy wind continued to whip through the house. Furniture blew over, more cabinets opened and the contents scattered everywhere, a great number of things breaking upon impact with the counters and floor. Terror wrenched through him as he watched his wife's beloved house plants wither and die only for new ones to sprout in their place—thick, black, ugly vines beset with thorns that crawled out of the pots and planters to weave their way up the walls, sinking their creepers deep into the plaster as they went.

Archer was pelting around the house as if he were absolutely demented. Foaming at the mouth, he charged from room to room, up and down the stairs, barking and snarling and tearing up the floor with his claws. To make matters worse, items were being knocked about and broken ahead of him, as if he was actually chasing something Fernando couldn't see.

 _Ghosts!_ Fernando thought with dawning comprehension and absolute horror.

"Go away!" he screamed over the wind. "Leave me alone!" When the madness refused to stop, he curled into a ball and began to pray. In between litanies and hyperventilating gasps, he continued choked out, "Go away…go away…please…just leave me alone…"

"Fernando?"

Startling with a stifled shriek, Fernando lifted his head just enough to peer over his arms, which he'd been using to protectively cradle his head.

Adelina stood amidst the mess, a pair of plastic grocery bags dangling from her hand as she looked around in absolute disbelief. The wind had stopped, though Fernando had no idea when that had actually happened. Had it been just now, when his wife had come home? The vines were gone, too, he realized as he glanced about, the original plants restored alive and healthy to their pots. Even the demonic ice had vanished away, leaving not a speck of cold or damp on the floor. All that remained of his ordeal was upturned furniture, smashed dinnerware, and a dog that had finally calmed down and now stood placidly at Adelina's side, tongue lolling out the corner of his mouth as he panted.

His wife eventually stopped surveying the chaotic scene to stare at her husband in wide-eyed shock.

"What the hell happened? _Fernando_?"

Fernando…didn't know what to say…

… _drip…drip…_

* * *

The doctors said he'd suffered a nervous breakdown. Understandable, they assured him, considering all the stress he'd been put through in the last few years. They prescribed anxiolytics to ease Fernando's nerves, told him to rest and relax as much as possible over the next few days, and instructed the couple very carefully as to what warning signs to look for that would indicated Fernando needed more in-depth care. A few names of local counselors and therapists were thrown around, though Fernando couldn't have remembered one of them even if he tried. He was only half-aware of what was going on around him, too lost in his own thoughts to pay any real attention. He let his wife do most of the talking.

Adelina appeared somewhat consoled by the diagnosis, but Fernando wasn't so sure. He stayed home as instructed, but unbeknownst to his wife he absolutely refused to take his medication. The bottle sat untouched on the bathroom sink. If there was one thing Fernando _was_ certain of, it was his sanity. He most certainly had _not_ destroyed the house in a fit of anxiety-driven delirium, but how could he argue that to anyone without convincing them that he was in fact crazy?

He bit at his nails—a habit he'd fiercely quelled in his childhood, if only to put a stop to the harassment he'd suffered from the other boys in his neighborhood—and paced around and around his house, trying to sort out everything that had happened and put it right in his mind.

… _drip…_

It was hard—

… _drip…_

—what with that insufferable noise.

… _drip…_

…

…drip…

* * *

A few days after the incident, he called a priest to come bless the house. When he told his wife, Adelina opened her mouth as if she were about to complain or argue, then seemed to change her mind. With a shake of the head, she gave her husband a hug and murmured to him kindly, "Whatever you need to make this better, Fernando, I'll support."

What he needed was for the damn dripping to stop, but he didn't mention that. He figured all would be well once the place was blessed and the damn ghosts or demons or whatever they were, were banished away.

By the time the priest arrived the following weekend, Fernando was beside himself. The dripping sound had become more pronounced than ever before, and odd things _continued_ to happen to him. Archer would stare off into corners or up onto the armoire and growl and bark as if something was there, when nothing ever was. Plants would wither and die whenever Fernando walked past them, but when he balked and whipped around it was to find them alive and healthy as if nothing had happened.

As if Fernando was crazy.

By far the worst thing, though, was the ice. It crept onto furniture and inched down the back of his neck. It iced over his food so that it stayed frozen no matter how many times he cooked it. It frosted the windows so that invisible fingers could write horrible, foreboding messages into it, terrorizing him silently.

HELLO FERNANDO

HOW ARE YOU TODAY FERNANDO?

YOU DON'T LOOK SO GOOD

YOU LOOK TIRED

YOUR WIFE IS WORKING VERY HARD…HOW COME YOU NEVER WORK, FERNANDO?

YOU REALLY SHOULD BE NICER TO YOUR DOG. HE'S ONLY TRYING TO PROTECT YOU.

FERNANDO

FERNANDO

The pictures were just as bad, pictures of dancing stick figures and of rabbits and horses and…

HAVE YOU SPOKEN TO CARLOS RECENTLY?

"The hell would I talk to him for?" he hissed to the empty room when he saw that little note. It was written smaller than the others, as if the invisible finger had somehow shrunken to an almost child-like size. Fists clenched at his sides, Fernando continued in a furious whisper, "He's a cowardly piece of shit, couldn't even defend his own father!"

A FATHER WHO HURT HIM?

Fernando nearly puked when he saw that. Thankfully, the priest arrived the following morning, so he assured himself everything would be all right. The place was blessed and the ghosts were gone and he would be haunted no more.

…he was wrong.

YOU HURT HIM FERNANDO. YOU HURT YOUR OWN SON.

"What son?" He was backed into the corner of his bedroom, glowering at the window. "No son of mine would be such a spineless bastard! No son of mine would—"

HE ENDURED YOU FOR MANY YEARS. I THINK THAT MAKES HIM BRAVE.

"He's a coward!" Fernando shrieked. Bloodshot, tired eyes bulged out of his head as he hollered, "If he wanted to talk to me, he'd come to me himself! Not send you demons after me!"

A long pause followed that outcry. As Fernando stood there, panting heavily, a tiny flame of hope bloomed in his chest as he wondered if perhaps the foul beings had finally let him be.

Then, to his utter horror, a new hand began to write to him on the window.

And this time…this time he recognized the handwriting.

WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I'M NOT HERE TOO?

* * *

He dedicated himself over the next few days to finding Carlos, if only to get the little shit to put a stop to whatever voodoo nonsense he'd conjured up. Fernando had already dealt with more than his fair share of unjust punishment thanks to Child Protective Services; he wasn't about to roll over and take more.

Trouble was…he couldn't find him. The coward had fled from his aunt's house shortly before Fernando's case went to trial, and while the cops had looked for him since they needed him as a witness they never did manage to catch up to him. Fernando, however, knew people, people who trusted him and whom he trusted in turn, so it wasn't very long at all before he learned the wretched sack of shit had spent the last few years hopping from county to county, shelter to shelter, taking up odd jobs like lawn mowing and dish washing to try and get by. He'd fallen into drugs, too, apparently. Hard drugs, and had done some pretty disgusting, degrading things to get himself those drugs whenever money ran dry.

 _No son of mine would be like that. No son of mine!_

After a while, though, the trail went dead. Even Fernando's extensive network of friends and relatives couldn't figure out where the brat had gone; it was as if the wretched little fucker had simply dropped off the face of the earth.

Good.

Well… _good_ …except now Fernando had no way to get the hauntings to stop.

WHY DIDN'T YOU LIKE ME?

"You are a cowardly little shit. You can't even face me like a man!"

I DON'T BELIEVE YOU

YOU DISLIKED ME FOR AS LONG AS I CAN REMEMBER…WHAT DOES A SMALL CHILD DO TO

MAKE THEIR OWN FATHER HATE THEM SO MUCH?

Fernando clenched his fists, raised them into a fighting stance as he snarled vehemently, "Come face me, boy, and I'll remind you!"

There was a pause. And when the words started up again, it was back to the handwriting that looked to belong to a very small child.

CAN YOU NOT EVEN SEE WHAT YOU'VE DONE WRONG?

"I've done nothing wrong! You hear me?! _Nothing!_ "

NOT WITH CARLOS?

"Fuck him! Fuck you, boy, hear me?! You spineless, worthless, _disgusting_ little shit! I hope you rot in hell for doing this to me!"

WHAT ABOUT JORGE?

As he read that name, Fernando felt something icy yet fanatically hot touch the center of his chest. It burned all the way up his throat, scalding the back of his tongue until it felt as if he would literally breathe fire.

"What about him?" he whispered, and was actually a bit surprised when flames _didn't_ come shooting out of his mouth.

So…this was it, huh? _This_ was what all this shit was about. Carlos knew about his plans (how he knew was of little consequence—the same demons he was consorting with to pull off this horrible stunt had probably told him), and was now trying to _scare_ him into giving up.

Fool. No one was going to stop him from achieving his end.

No one.

THAT BOY DID NOTHING BUT TRY TO PLEASE YOU YET YOU TREATED HIM LIKE SCUM.

AND NOW…NOW YOU WANT TO KILL HIM, ALL BECAUSE HE TRIED TO BREAK FREE OF YOU AND SUCCEEDED

"What he _succeeded at_ was getting me locked up. And for what? For making him mind and punishing him when he didn't?"

He laughed. It was a dry, ugly sound, one he barely recognized as his own.

"I will not allow him to get away with it," he breathed in a black whispered, glaring at the window with all the hate in his heart. "I don't care what you do to me, demons. I don't care what your pussy shit of a master makes you do. I _will_ see that boy pay."

The last words to ever appear on his inexplicably frosted bedroom window were written in sharp, matter-of-fact strokes:

THEN WE WILL STOP YOU

* * *

His cousin had been arrested. That was why he hadn't gotten back to Fernando in so long. Fernando had no idea what Javier had done, or even the exact date of his arrest, for the police were being extremely tight-lipped about the entire case. That was never a good thing, especially since Javier had been part of state law enforcement. Usually the media sucked up such tales and churned them out as headline news for weeks, creating mass anger and public ridicule.

But there was nothing. Not even a blurb in the local paper or a snippet on social media.

Fernando chewed his nails down to the quick worrying about what would happen when investigators found out that he and his cousin had been in contact. Would they just pass it off as coincidence, relatives touching base with one another after Fernando's stint in jail? Or would they use his recent incarceration as a basis for suspicion, and dig deeper?

And if they dug deeper, what exactly would they find…?

* * *

… _drip…_

* * *

Twice. They came to the house twice to talk to him about his cousin. Apparently his and Adelina's assertions that they'd only spoken with the man a handful of times and were hardly bosom companions did not appease the investigators. If there was one thing Fernando knew, it was how to read people, and he could tell they suspected him for something.

 _What_ though? It couldn't be about that little shit…Javier had assured him he'd covered his tracks well.

* * *

… _drip…_

* * *

"He's cracking."

"He is. He barely made it through the last interview."

"So can I stop playing tag with the bitzer now?"

"Yes, Aster. You can stop."

"Thank Manny."

"What about us?" Jack Frost inquired of Layla. "Think we should ease up too?"

She considered a moment before answering. "Yes, let us stop for now. I think the humans will be more than capable of taking it from here."

"He could have wormed his way out of this before," Starfire piped in, leaning against the wall with her staff resting against one shoulder, "but not now. His mental state is too fragile. He's exhausted, overstressed, and completely worked up thinking he's been cursed. Even his wife has noticed he's losing it, though he hasn't realized that himself, which shows just how far he's fallen. Though despicable, he is no fool, and under any other circumstances would've noticed her suspicions in an instant."

Frost stared at the flora spirit before turning his head to consider Layla.

"You knew about the investigation, didn't you," he said. "You knew those officers would eventually show up and timed all this so as to use them for the final blow."

"I did not want to drive him to true madness, as that can push humans into doing unspeakable things," Layla replied. "Besides, it would be pointlessly cruel, as we can accomplish the same goal without going to such extremes. So, yes, I did consciously decide to use the humans. Not only does this keep our interference minimal, it ensures proper justice is done this time."

"It had better," Starfire growled under her breath, earning her looks from the other Guardians.

Carlos was the only one who did not react. An introvert by nature (or, perhaps more accurately, an introvert by necessity thanks to the hell he'd endured before ending his life), he tended to keep himself apart and very rarely participated in the Guardians' conversations. Layla was the only spirit he'd ever actually spoken to, deferring to nonverbal responses like shrugs or despondent nodding of the head whenever one of the others tried to talk to him. As a boisterous and outgoing lot, nearly all of the Guardians were rather put-off by this melancholy and remained uncomfortable in his presence. Starfire was the only exception; she stood near enough to Carlos to make him feel included without actually engaging him, which he seemed to appreciate, even if he never openly said so.

At present, Carlos was again standing by himself, his mind clearly somewhere else entirely. Layla considered him for a moment before trotting over.

"Your part in this is done," she murmured quietly, so the others wouldn't overhear, "if you wish it to be." She didn't want Carlos to continue to be around his father if all it would serve to do was drive the boy-spirit's extremely fresh emotional and psychological wounds deeper into his psyche.

"No," he rasped in Spanish. Speaking the language seemed to give him comfort, just as it did for his stepbrother. "No, I will see this done. I will prove to him that I am no coward."

"You don't have to prove anything to him," Layla countered gently, likewise in Spanish. "You owe him no such obligation."

"Maybe." He glanced down at the child-spirit, his expression somber. "But…it will prove something to me, that I am capable of doing something worthwhile. And…" He swallowed painfully before finishing. "And it will help Jorge."

* * *

Fernando was beside himself. He couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. He paced relentlessly and chewed his nails until they bled. The hauntings had finally stopped, but it hardly mattered now. Now he was being haunted by a much larger, more tangible threat: the cops.

They'd come to the house with a warrant to seize all phones and computers in the house. They even took his wife's iPad, a matter which Adelina protested loudly and vehemently as it contained some very personal—and very private—material. None of it had mattered. The police came, seized the items, and then left. The whole fucking neighborhood knew about it; he and his wife couldn't go anywhere without being accosted by blatant stares or stage-whispered gossip.

He'd deleted his computer's search history long before the cops arrived, erasing all evidence of his hunt for the lying little shit, but would that be enough? Maybe it wouldn't matter. Maybe his traitorous son had gone to the police and was now spreading lies, too. That would certainly explain why Fernando hadn't been able to locate him, despite exhaustive searching. Maybe the wretched bastard child had sold him out to get off charges and was now being protected in exchange.

Sold out his own father…the fucking traitor…

Maybe he should've destroyed the evidence of his hunt for that boy too…

* * *

Two days after the warrant was served, Fernando was summoned to the station. That he was being called down there instead of the cops coming to his place was further evidence that things were not going well at all. How the hell could this have happened? How the hell could things have fallen out of his control so quickly? He'd escaped this same predicament once before with minimal damage, why hadn't he been able to pull it off a second time?

It was all their fault…it had to be… Javier and that lying little shit and his own traitorous child…all three of them had betrayed him, those sorry sacks of—

"I beg your pardon?"

Fernando blinked. He found himself staring into the bewildered blue eyes of a detective seated beside a stout, mustached colleague in a wrinkled suit coat. Both men stared at him as if they could not believe what they had just heard; Fernando himself hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud until the detective made mention of it.

But even so, as the three of them sat there in stunned silence, Fernando instinctively knew what it was he'd said.

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _d_

 _r_

 _i_

 _p_

 _._

 _._

 _._

And so he repeated himself.

"They betrayed me."

"Who?" the blue-eyed detective queried. He leaned a bit closer to the small steel table so he could hear Fernando better. "Who betrayed you?"

"All of them," Fernando murmured. "All three of them. They did this to me…they've ruined me…" Every syllable was uttered with incredible strain, as if the man who spoke them bordered on the very edge of falling into rage.

Having noted the shift in tension, the suited one pressed, "Ruined you? How?"

"Can't you see?" Fernando hissed, glaring into the detective's eyes. "Can't you see what they've done? Can't you see what those traitorous little shits have done to me?!"

He was shouting by the end, having leapt from his seat so the chair fell backward and hit the floor with a loud bang. Both detectives, hardened by years' experience with all manner of aggressive and unstable criminals, watched calmly as Fernando paced the tiny interrogation room like a mad thing. He didn't know why he was so desperate to get them to understand, but he _needed_ them to understand, to know that he had been terribly wronged.

"They've stolen my time, my energy, my _life_! How can they stand to live with themselves after what they've done to me, yet live they do! It isn't right! It isn't _just_!"

He bit at his nails, the coppery taste of blood doing absolutely nothing to calm him.

If anything, it drove his manic madness to even greater heights.

"I've already been sentenced once, isn't that enough? No, no, not for them! They want to see me pay! They want to see me suffer! Can't you see that I'm suffering?!"

"Who?" the fat one asked. "Who wants you to suffer?"

" _My own flesh and blood!_ " Fernando roared, spit flying form his mouth. "That traitorous bastard, he's no son of mine! He'd rather side with that lying sack of shit than with his own father!"

"Are you talking about Carlos? Do you know where he is?"

Fernando laughed maniacally, "Ohh, oh, how I wish I did! How I wish I could wring his disgusting little neck! First he betrays me to that lying _putrid_ flesh and his lies, and now he's gone and cursed me! _Cursed me_! My house is fucking _haunted_ now because of him!"

He was so worked up he completely failed to notice the meaningful glance that passed between the two detectives. Fernando was the very picture of indignant outrage, determined to see _someone, anyone_ finally listen to him and understand that the situation in which he was currently trapped **was not his fault**.

"All I did was punish them! All I did was make them mind! How is that wrong, huh?! How is it wrong for a man to make his children mind?!"

"It's wrong when the punishment given constitutes abuse," the blue-eyed detective dared to say.

"It was not abuse!" Fernando screamed, slamming his hands down onto the table. "It wasn't! So I belted them! So what?! So I made them do chores and clean the house! So what?! I was trying to make them mind! I was _trying_ to make them men!"

"Them? Are you saying you did the same things to Carlos as you did to Jorge?"

" _Don't say that name in front of me_! It's his fault I'm like this! It's _his_ fault my son grew up to be a pussy and a coward! If anyone should be blamed for all of this _it's that fucking boy!_ "

"Is that why you spoke to Javier? Researched protocol for foster placement and witness protection? To find Jorge?"

"He needs to pay! He needs to pay for his lies! If you people cannot see what a wretched sack of waste he is, then I will make you see!"

"How? How did you intend to do that?"

Fernando laughed. He laughed and laughed, and it was such an ugly sound, like the cackling of a lunatic.

"I would make him tell the truth," he chortled. "I would find him and I would _make_ him take back all the lies he spread about me. And then—" he chuckled once, low and deep in his chest, eyes glazed with madness, "—then I would cut his fucking tongue out so he could never lie again."

"Are you saying you would torture him?"

"Yes!"

"Were you planning to kill him?"

"Abse-fucking-lutely."

Fernando straightened with a smirk. Finally somebody was listening to him _. Finally_ somebody understood the hell he had been going through. He watched with smug satisfaction as the two cops conversed in hushed undertones, convinced that he had finally won.

But then…

…then…

Fernando…

…he blinked…

And he realized what he'd just done.

* * *

His lawyer tried to get the confession declared inadmissible as evidence, arguing that the police had taken unjust advantage of his client's fragile mental health. The court was provided with documents from Fernando Castillo's doctor, as well as testimony from Mrs. Castillo as to her husband's worrying behavior at home, to back up this claim.

The prosecution alleged Fernando Castillo had been faking his health condition. One visit to the doctor meant nothing, they asserted, when there had been absolutely no follow-up to the appointment, the bottle of anxiolytics seized from the accused's home was still full, and—based upon both the date of the doctor's visit _and_ Mrs. Castillo's own testimony—not one of the man's supposed symptoms had presented until a date subsequent to Javier Castillo's arrest. To their mind, the evidence clearly pointed to a man who'd stooped so low as to feign temporary incompetence after growing suspicious of his co-conspirator's extended absence.

To settle the matter once and for all, the judge ordered Fernando Castillo to undergo extensive evaluation via a court-appointed psychologist.

As the evaluation ultimately proved him to be more than competent to stand trial, the prosecution's assertion that Castillo was a dangerous, manipulative liar was cemented, and the defense's claim thrown out.

The trial lasted six days. Search histories, call and text message logs, downloaded files, and saved documents that depicted his search for both boys (most of which Fernando had erroneously believed permanently expunged from his phone and computer) were presented on day two. On day three, Javier Castillo took the stand. Apparently the spineless bastard had made a plea deal, agreeing to testify against his cousin in exchange for leniency in his own case. Fernando was absolutely livid, and glared hot enough to ignite a forest as he listened to the lies pour out of the traitor's mouth.

But it wasn't until the cross-examination of Mrs. Adelina Castillo on day four that he finally lost his temper.

His wife conducted herself well, chin up and tone firm as she answered each question without hesitation, despite the prosecution's every attempt to twist her words and confuse her. Fernando would've been immensely proud of her, except he was still furious over what Javier had done. And when the bastard lawyer had the audacity to ask his wife _to her face_ whether she cared more for her husband's freedom than her son's life, something inside Fernando snapped like strained piano wire. He leapt to his feet, shouting obscenities at the prosecutor until the armed guards had to literally drag him out of the courtroom and into the holding cell at the back of the courthouse.

Later on that same day, when he was finally calmed enough to be returned to the courtroom, instead of heeding his lawyer's whispered orders to remain silent he loudly and vehemently declared that he was _just so sick and fucking tired_ of everyone painting that lying little shit like a fucking angel.

In retrospect, that was probably what did him in.

When the trial concluded nearly eight long months after his second arrest, Fernando Castillo was found guilty of one count each of conspiracy to commit felony child abuse, conspiracy to commit torture, and conspiracy to commit murder.

For a man with two strikes already on is record, the sentence was life in prison, no possibility of parole.

* * *

The Guardians breathed easier once the trial was done. They returned to their respective realms, glad that Jorge was finally safe and praying to every star in the night sky that they would never have to resort to such reprehensible methods ever again.

* * *

Less than a week after he was moved from the local jail to a state prison, Fernando Castillo was brutally attacked by his fellow inmates and forced into solitary confinement for his own protection. If there was one thing the lowest and foulest of North America's penal system could not stand, it was a person who committed crimes against children.

That Castillo had all but gotten away with it the first time was something the inmates were all itching to rectify.

Alone in his cell for twenty-three hours of the day, with only a few handwritten letters from his wife and his own dark thoughts for company, Fernando Castillo reluctantly resigned himself to the disgusting meals, bare cinderblock walls and thin patch of pale sunlight that had become permanent features of his miserable life.

Well…at least the dripping had finally stopped…


End file.
